


Balled of a Dalliance

by romilhemnani



Category: BROCKHAMPTON (Band)
Genre: 80s, 90s, AU, M/M, bh doesn’t exist nor is it ever mentioned, they r just characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romilhemnani/pseuds/romilhemnani
Summary: it’s the great era, and russell has landed himself a job to be the loyal towel boy of a world famous boy band.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> idk

1978, Michigan

strings were tugged, feet were stomped, heads were banged, and drums were beat to pulp. it was all raw, chaotic energy for the boys on stage, especially tonight being their first time taking their talents to a 10,000 capacity venue. matthew, the self titled leader of the band, gasped for air after every note, beads of sweat rolling down his neck. the girls in front row were taking it all in. sucks to be them when dear matt isn't exactly attracted to their kind. 

the drummer, merlyn wood, sat shirtless at his kit. he started the show fully clothed, but ended up stripping for the encouraging crowd that seemed to be chanting his name whenever he looked up from his musical gaze. that's what he says every time. it takes probably about four people giving him a slither of attention for him to get lost in it, a higher high than the exclusive rockstar blunts he gets daily supplies of. 

the guitarist, ciaran mcdonald, wasn't as enthusiastic as the rest of the band, normally staying put on his assigned stage spot. quiet for an alleged star, and should be putting his all into it since that's what the people pay to see, they still love him regardless. or maybe the people want to see ciaran half asleep, probably more drunk than sober, run his fingers through the strings of the overpriced instrument a couple of times. what would I know? 

matt used to be the guitarist until the lead vocalist overdosed while performing. he had to be escorted by minimum five venue employees and a few roadies. I can still remember his body going limp, perfect celebrity poster to a helpless rag doll in under a second. one of the many reasons matt stopped doing drugs while performing. I wasn't emotionally affected by it, nor was the rest of the crew. the guy was a proper asshole. 

now, they're on their final song. 

matt tells the crowd, encourages them to 'sing along if you know the lyrics' and to clap to the beat. ciaran kicks in first. matt is now bobbing his head, leaning his head back, and letting the sound fill his body. he's a musical genius, knows exactly what notes, chords, beats, tunes, shakes, rattles, and pows go well together. matt's singing a cover of one of his favourite songs. his lips glossy, hair nappy, and— is he crying? 

"I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things," the crowd echoes back, some choking on sobs exactly how an exaggerated writer would describe it. reddened faces, and porcelain doll like tears. it's not really poetic or anything. I watch this all from the side of the stage, ready for one of the members to give me a signal so I can sweep in and either hand them a towel, a water bottle— or maybe even a tissue, in matts case. 

"I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings. be your valentino just for you,"  
thousands of voices mimicked, each with a different meaning to their words. posters were held up, crowd surfers settled, and people swayed their arms in the air. 

left to right, left to right, left to right, left to— you guessed it— right. I spot a girl putting her bra back on somewhere near the centre of barricade. the atmosphere wasn't as sexual, and angry as the other songs. it was a sweet, and soft ending to a night no one will forget. a night that will be passed on through generations, stories told over camp fires to grandchildren in twenty years, or stories that will be shared at a night club across the globe. who knows how this night will impact someone. I'm betting half of my budget that a few people out there don't even know who this band is, and what their deal is. though, I'm also betting the other half of my budget that they will walk out of this venue with a new favourite. 

with the final lyric, matt breaks the seductive glare from the crowd, and fixes it on me. he's staring, microphone in hand, panting, sweating. his eyes gleam and sparkle alongside the stage lights, flickering with a fire that wasn't apart of the special effects for this song. 

one of the sound techs taps my shoulder, "do your job?" it's now that I'm realizing matt was giving me the signal, and not lovingly staring at me during a love song. I snap out of my gaze, quickly rushing over and handing him a towel. his skin grazes mine for a split moment. I nearly freeze. 

I'm not in love with the man or anything, I just deeply appreciate his existence. being gay now a days isn't easy, so I have tons of respect for him. deep, deep respect. nothing more. it's the seventies, after all. discrimination is waiting for you at every street corner. in the end, i'm a towel boy, and he's a world known star that probably has minuscule interest in someone like me. 

"thanks," he says under his breath, a genuine appreciative undertone somewhere in there. I smile at him in a 'you're welcome' way, share a brief glance with the crowd, and make my way backstage once more. my six seconds of fame. someone in that crowd would seriously break the law to be in my position. I never knew I'd be the towel boy for a world famous boy band when I signed up. I just wanted some extra cash for summer, save up for decent clothes, and maybe buy my mom a new house in ten or so years. 

in no time, the song is over, the crowd begs for encore, but there isn't one planned for tonight. merlyn says they should come up with a consistent set list for every show, but matt disagrees and that he'll get bored after one show. I don't pitch in often, but ciaran asked for my opinion on it, and I just shrugged. 

matt kissed his teeth, not particularly at me, but the intention to make me insecure was there. merlyn sighed, ciaran pat my shoulder. It's odd that I remember the simple interactions and gestures. we don't hangout often, not like friends. I do consider us friends though, or maybe they just see me as a replaceable roadie that sometimes slithers across the stage to hand you a towel. 

"thank you michigan, thank you! we love you! so fucking much!" merlyn says into his individual mic, eager for the chance to finally interact with the people that skyrocket his ego. matt sticks his arms up, revealing pit stains and neck sweat. it's gross, but the crowd goes wild either way. they all take a bow, smiling towards their fans, but not at them. ciaran does something like a wave, lifting his hand up halfway, and then giving up once he realizes all eyes are on matt, letting his hand go limp while he hangs his head. it's finally over! thank –fucking god! 

"lennon! how'd I do?" they're backstage now, the crowd slowly dying down, and only the dedicated fans remain for a possibility at any sort of interaction. maybe they await for matt to come back out and sing an exclusive song just for them, or they want him to personally kick them out of the venue. either is as likely as the other. when matt is off stage, he is off stage. you can't pay the guy to go back out there for another second. unlike any other celebrity, he doesn't really like interacting with the fans. he loves them dearly, he's just not a people person. I don't have a doubt in my body that matt would rather cut his own tongue off than have to do meet and greets like the press always suggests. fan service isn't something you should expect from anyone but merlyn, and maybe their body guard, kiko. I don't think that's an english name. I'm really observant. 

"amazing, you guys were great." dom is the most honest man I know. he's down to earth, generous with his words, and knows what to say and when to say it. "as always, but tonight felt different. is it because we're in michigan? I think so." he rambled, offering matt a cold beer, and a foldable chair. "yeah, probably. sweet, sweet michigan. also, no thanks. I'm heading out for a smoke." dom grimaced in response, rolling his eyes at the habit matt weighed down on the people around him. "anyone got a cig?" matt asked around, most people said no, apologized for the inconvenience, or offered to drive him to get some. "no, no, I need one now. can't wait any longer." so, with all my efforts, "I have a pack." I could almost physically feel the room get tighter when his globe-like hazel eyes met mine from across the room. 

"hey, thanks kid." I'm only six months younger than him. 

matt was by my side in seconds, taking the pack out of my clammy hands, and signalling towards the back door. "come with?" I almost said 'no, thanks' due to my immediate reaction speed to any question fired at me, but instead I follow him outside. 

it's cold, snowing a little, and dark. the ground is slathered in wet, dirty snow, and it makes the soles of my shoes slightly damp. 

matts hands are pale, knuckles a deep pink as he fumbled with the lighter in his hand. he hissed a string of curses, struggling. as if on cue, I grabbed it from his cold, cold hands, and started flicking the flare; he leans in, cigarette between his dry lips. it's an exchange strangers trade often, and I shouldn't over think it, but I am. his face is close to my hands, frowning a little as the flame flickers in the wind. his eyebrows are knitted together, and his hair sways gently as cars pass by. 

"thank you." matt said, inhaling the smoke and letting it sit in his lungs for a little too long. "y'know, russell.." he pauses, looks me in the eyes, "it's russell, right?" "yes." he blows out the smoke, nods, nods and nods. "right." a wave of silence crashes over us, but it's not uncomfortable. maybe for me it's not. "you're not so bad." I look at what he's wearing, the same t-shirt he was wearing on stage. it's dry now, but I can't seem to understand how he's able to handle the minus degree weather. unlike him, I have a trench coat wrapped around myself, grabbing at the collar in an attempt to warm myself up a tad bit more. 

"you're not cold?" I ask, aiming for conversation. he scoffs. "did you know smokers would go out in any weather condition just to fuel their addiction? we're not pussies. we're also respectful to the people around us, so we go outside to smoke." he says that like he speaks for an entire nation, swallowing his pride because it's nothing to be proud of, or to show off. I smoke, I know. either way, I hum in response, noting that he avoided my question. 

a minute or so passes where the only sound produced was the flicker of a dying lightbulb, and ash burning through snow as it fell. 

"I used to be a towel boy," he begins, and this, oh this catches my attention. I scan his face for a glimpse of any possible emotion, but there's none. stone cold, and grey. "fucking hell, I wanted to be just like the band I serviced." theres venom to his words, and maybe a tinge of bitterness laced. "was it good cash?" I quiz, curious to know how the future star was paid compared to me. "no, it was more like a distraction from the drugs. my brother offered me the job, so I took it." I raise my eyebrows and he mocks me like it surprises him that I'm surprised. maybe he and I aren't all that different. 

"how old were you when you first..? if you don't mind me aski—" 

"sixteen." matt interrupts. he doesn't want me to mention it. 

"why?" 

matt pauses for a second as if he needs some time to think as to why he even started. "for the thrill." he settled on the thrill card, and it takes everything in me to not call him out on his bullshit because I know it wasn't for the thrill. "but I'm done with that shit. it ruined me. I still do cannabis here and there.. but it's medically prescribed." so, that makes it okay? I don't ask. how did we even get here? 

"anyway, I think I'm gunna head back inside," matt puts out his cigarette, dropping it to the ground and swivelling the bottom of his shoe to make sure he isn't the face of the next wildfire. "unless you're up for one?" he asks, offering me a cig. his eyes glisten like he would get on his knees for an excuse to have another round. "sure." I can nearly sense his muscles softening as I take the tobacco stick from his pleading hands, watching intently as he shakily and eagerly pulls out another for himself. 

he sighs deeply, looking off into the distance before leaning in again. I'm confused for a second, but he gestures towards the lighter and the cigarette between his lips. "you smoke a lot?" he now asks me, his words mumbled and compressed. "not a lot, but often. I really want to quit, but withdrawal is an ass kicker." I say, and he exhales. "ditto, I tried quitting last summer and ended up sprinting to a twenty-four-seven gas station at three a.m to stop my skin from crawling." we share a laugh, but nothing is funny. it's sad, really. I remember it too; the crew panicking when they couldn't find matt in his hotel room, the crew calling police stations to help them find their frontman, the crew becoming increasingly hysterical when there was less than an hour until the show in berlin was supposed to start. I also remember matt casually walking out of his change room, vocalizing to a song he desperately wanted on the set list, but ciaran refused to be backup. 

"what'd I miss?" matt said, obliviously sitting himself down as everyone stared with jaws agape. 

"where did you even go?" back to the present. "I don't really recall much, I think I might have fallen asleep in a ditch." he jokes, but the smile he pulls isn't one of warm memories. "it was bad." matt finally confesses, 

"really bad. one of my worst withdrawals, I think." "there's more?" he nods, but I'd feel intrusive if I kept pressing questions against him like I've been doing for the past half an hour. I don't think I really took it into consideration on how he feels. 

"I'm sorry if I'm pushing you with these questions.. just trying to converse." I say, running a hand through my hair as my opposite is stuck to my side. I talk too much. "it's fine, you're cool." probably one of the biggest compliments I've gotten since U2's limousine drove past me. 

"I'll give my lungs a break," matts stomps on the stick, inches away from his last. I consider doing the same, but my cravings aren't settled just yet. "I'll see you back inside." he finalizes, his tone crisp and possibly hopeful, scuffing his shoes across the pavement as he made his way back to the venue. "I'll be expecting you at rehearsal!" matt calls out when he's metres away, hands around his mouth in attempt of gaining volume. I wave towards him, reassuring him that his expectancy will be satisfied. I never miss rehearsal. I'll be there.


	2. Subpar and Probably Replaceable

1980, Bucharest

“It’s useless,” Matt began. “And boring.” Ciaran finished. 

The European tour has been treating everyone but the band well. The catering we receive at the five star hotels we’re automatically booked into is top notch, maybe even gnarly as the kids say it. But it fails to satisfy the deep longing in my stomach for something familiar and homelike. I’ve had this ache since December of 1979, the time we embarked on this supposed ‘once in a lifetime opportunity,’

to which was cruelly added the fact that ‘your shelf life is temporary unless an album is out soon.’ 

So, with a single sentence from the very intimidating Dom McLennon, Matt was taking the studio to the roads and agreed to a European tour in exchange for an earlier album release. “He basically threatened me.” He said, all while being the powerhouse of the situation and the one who got majority of the income. Blinded to the idea of him benefiting from this tour, Matt remains bitter. He takes it out on the crew too often. And now I’m standing outside of the tour bus, smoking the last few of my cigarettes because I don’t want Matt taking them. He’s gotten used to me constantly having some on me, so he leeches off of my supply. I couldn’t say no with him knowing I have a few left, he’d probably fire me. Maybe even mention me foully in interviews, tell the cameras that the towel boy tried to kill him in his sleep or tried to poison him. 

I think I’m giving up on the idea of being friendly with him. It hasn’t gotten me far, but when he has those remarkable outbursts, he never raises his voice at me like at the others. I’m not gunna think of myself as the favoured one, but that’s exactly how I think of myself. 

Stay on good terms with Matt Champion, but don’t let him control you. 

It would be a much easier goal to achieve if my heart didn’t do flips and turns whenever Matt breathed in my direction. 

Thinking back to the idea of me beating myself up over having a crush on him is unearthly, he’s a God, and it’s expected to eventually fall in love with him, right? I haven’t met a single roadie who wasn’t eventually kicked off into the foreign roads because they creeped Matt out in some way. I’m forever grateful for my handy quality of unreadable emotions. One of the many perks of being a Capricorn. 

Speaking of, it’s almost my birthday. 

We’ll be somewhere in Italy, but I don’t plan on celebrating, nor telling anyone. I’ll treat myself by wearing that pink headband I bought from a tourists stop in Bulgaria. We couldn’t stay for long, the cashier recognized Ciaran behind the very stealthy pair of red sunglasses he was trying on and started harassing him over his rumoured affair. It took a while for Ciaran to catch on to the public picturing him as a divorcee. The guy hasn’t had as much of a one-night stand since I’ve been hired, and he’s very public about his relationships. 

The cigarette ash hits the ground, staying aflame for a few seconds before withering away into black and white. We’ve stopped in the middle of a one-way, gravel embedded road. My skin starts to itch in an almost unbearable way once I’ve realized there’s not a single convenience store in sight. How inconvenient. I’m on my second last stick, and my lungs nearly collapse at the sight of it. 

Before I could think twice, Matt is beside me. 

“Hey,” he breathes, raw like he’s just been woken up. I echo a reply, slipping the last cigarette into my back pocket in one swift motion. It’s silent again, and I could probably trick my brain into thinking Matt’s still in the bus and I’m still alone. 

He doesn’t produce a single sound, not until he shoots me with a “you got Ibuprofen?” 

I shrug, pretending to check my pockets as if I normally kept some on me. I never bring medication with me on road trips, I either deal with it until it passes, or die. 

Matt let’s a groan escape his lips, deep and guttural like his pain is urgent. “Cigarettes?” He asks instead, and I nod against his liking. “Just smoked the last two.” I lie, my voice nearly breaking after the last few syllables. 

The sun is starting to rise. Matt doesn’t seem angered by my uselessness to meet his needs, and I’m glad. We never get alone time, and when we do, it’s to discuss where I’ll be waiting backstage or what signal to look after. Nothing has changed since Michigan. Maybe I’m being biased, but Matt is still the same sweaty rockstar. His hair is a little longer, but that’s it. 

Oh, and the shimmer in his eyes is gone. 

We stand together, watching the sun slowly make its way back up from hiding. The breeze blows through our hair, his dark brown, and mine blonde. “Russell,” Matt speaks with melancholy, staring at the side of my face. 

Is this it? Did he wake up early because he knew I’d be out here smoking until my lips can be used as sandpaper? Did he plan it all out? Who’s going to be my replacement once he cuts me off? Will I get my final pay-

“It’s fucking cold out here. I’m heading back in. Merlyn made us breakfast if you wanna join us.” He says instead. I let out a sigh of relief, nod, and smile. 

“Sure.” 

I need to stop having alone time with Matt Champion. It makes my brain turn to ooze and my veins turn to shoelaces. He could wear his guitar strap on his left shoulder instead of his right shoulder and I’d start reciting my pleads to keep my job. 

I won’t even blame him for how my mind works, because it’s not his fault. Matt didn’t program me. I’m not a robot, I don’t think. 

Breakfast sounds nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u catch the idkhow reference ok gn


	3. Bette Davis Eyes

The engine revs under my bunk, the rocky roads bringing me in and out of slumber. I try rubbing the sleep from my eyes before stepping out, instantly greeted with "mornin' Russell, we're heading out for the day. You coming?" But I don't have time to protest or politely decline the offer before Merlyn is grabbing at my limbs and shoving my jacket towards my chest. Okay, good morning, I'd love to come with. I don't say anything. I reluctantly start slipping my arms into the sleeves of my burgundy jacket and digging through its pockets for any change or cigarette butts. I find a quarter and a stick of gum. 

"Don't worry dude, we got you covered." Ciaran now says, his eyes warm, and it's kind of heavily embarrassing. I'm not poor or anything, I just happen to not have any money to support myself as an individual. Yeah, I pry off of the bands money at times, but only when I really need it. I play it off as them just being nice to me, but a newborn would be able to tell the difference between kindness and pure pity. After all, I'm just the handy towel boy. 

I do look at the bright side of things sometimes, but I feel as if there's always the dreadful thought of ‘wow, I have a financially shitty fucking job. but hey, at least I get to be constantly breathing the same air as Matt Champion.’

My parents have never been proud of me, or maybe they have when I was younger but forgot to verbally express it. They'd go on about how I should learn an instrument so I can play on stage with the band but I don't think it works that way mom and dad. 

"Thanks." I say, although Ciaran is long gone and in search for his shoes. 

—

"Just because we're in Romania," Matt starts, head held high and incredulous posture as we walk through the streets of Bucharest. "Does not mean we have to eat everything they have to offer." He argues, shooting Merlyn a glare. Poor Merlyn appreciated the culture and just wanted to stop by a buffet, but Matt wasn't having it. He needed his morning coffee and cigarettes. "Do they make dark roast in Europe?" Ciaran quizzes, his shoulder just barely touching mine as he perked up towards Matt. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course they do, and if they don't, I'll make it myself."

"Right." Ciaran nods feverishly, and I can only imagine what he's thinking of: Matt Champion causing a scene in local café because the barista doesn't serve said coffee or doesn't speak English in the slightest. Everyone would pull out their phones, record it all, and sooner or later, the press will cover it. The media would diagnose Matt with anger issues and that's not something you want to be labeled as: An angry man who hates foreigners and only cares for caffeine. 

My feet scuff the ground with every step, lazily dragging myself under the morning weight of 10:15 am, a.k.a too early to be awake. I half expected my body to have gotten used to the early ventures the crew encourages us to do to ‘pump ourselves up for the show tonight’, but that theory proved to be wrong. It went a little something like Matt waking up first out of everyone, forcing us all out of bed so we can tag along as he completely ignores instructions of having a bodyguard with him at all times. He'd take us on an unintentional tour of whatever city we're in, and eventually have to call up a taxi to take us back to the tour bus because ‘it seems as if I've lost track of where we are!’

"Dom called me last night." Matt chimes, earning the attention he deserved from the surrounding. "He suggested we add another show in Italy because the demand is high and we'd sell out either way." Italy is beautiful. I've been there a couple of times as a toddler and picked up on a few words on my way. ‘Per favore’ I'd plead, ‘grazie’ I'd repeat. That sums up my vocabulary but it can be useful to seem polite, and to dissociate yourself from the snobby band you work for. Not that it matters, I'm categorized the minute I'm seen with them. 

Anyway,

I don't plan on pitching in on the idea because my word isn't important. I let the conversation at hand slide to the back of my mind, my eyes lingering on the historic buildings that compliment the grey skies near to perfection. Was it going to rain? I swear I checked the weather app before leaving and it—"Russ? What do you think?" Matt asks, and it's only now that I'm realizing all eyes are on me, and I think I might look pretty fucking dumbfounded. 

"Sorry?" I sputter, shoving my hands into my jean pockets although they're too tight and too stiff for anything bigger than smuggling a pen you've stolen. 

"Italy? Would you be okay with one more show there?" Ciaran clarifies because Matt already seems annoyed. "Doesn't matter to me." I reply with honesty. Why would it matter? Sometimes, I don't even have to do anything. I stand on the side and wait for some stupid signal so I can jog across the stage to handover a water bottle or a towel. The signal doesn't always come, so I sit there like a fan would, waiting for acknowledgment. 

That musters up my life up to this point. Waiting for acknowledgement. So much effort, and for what? I should be Freddie fucking Mercury with this level of genuine belief I'll ever be more than a poor boy.

I blink, lick my lips at the silence that follows. Merlyn mumbles something incoherent, his head hanging. 

And we walk. 

—

The casual walk for morning routine didn't take long to turn into something Dom would yell at the crew for. "Well," Ciaran says, eyeing  the distressed Matt Champion with those damned glacier eyes of his. "I think we might be lost, dear." He jokes, lips turned into a devilish smirk because I think I remember him suggesting to bring a map, and this is the punchline. "Fuck you, we're not lost." Matt says with no hint of pride, reading off street names under his breath. 

It's been around 4 hours of continuous walking and frequent stops to admire scenery, nothing more and nothing less. It didn't occur to anyone during this stroll that maybe we should be dropping bread crumbs behind us to find our way back to the bus. "I still haven't had any coffee, or a smoke. This is bullshit, why is this fucking place so against me." Matt seethes through his teeth, his steps angry like a child that didn't get his way. "Lighten up, we'll be fine.. I think." Merlyn bargains with a fading smile, placing his hand on Matts shoulder at an attempt to cool him down. Matts fuming demeanour lowers, and I can finally breathe again. 

There’s a hint of suggestion, like everyone has something on the tip of their tongues that they’re biting down from release. I have nothing to say, as always. We’re lost? That’s one less show of hyper awareness itching at my skin. It’s getting late? Lucky me, I’m just a regular guy checking in to a random hotel I’ve come across. So, again, there’s nothing to lose on my behalf, therefore I keep my mouth shut and let it play out. 

"How 'bout we drop by a bar?” Ciaran let’s go of his tongue and let’s his suggestion fill the air. “Maybe they'll have like, a phone or something so we can call Dom. It's almost time for our show, and we can't be late again." Ciaran is right, we can't be late again, but since when is he the one to care whether we're late or not. Either way, the man is right. 

Matt doesn’t ponder much on the subject at matter, and before I know it, he has lead us to a dainty bar just across the road within seconds. 

Like a blood hound trained to sniff out alcohol and only alcohol. 

I don't doubt he's been skilfully trained to track down these places by the way we waltzes in and immediately sits himself down in one of the velvet booths. We follow like yes-men, nothing but the woozy undertone of ‘he did not just lead us into...’—"a gay bar?" Merlyn whisper yells as he hurriedly shoves himself into the darkest corner of the booth, cowering away like an insecure school boy. No straight man wants to be seen in a place like this, which is why I'm beginning to question Ciaran's lack of nerve. Merlyn on the other hand, 

"I can literally feel my insides trade places." 

"Would you relax, it's on me." Matt slides his wallet onto the table, but it doesn't help the fact that Merlyn is now halfway under the table. 

Minutes into the constant banter and Merlyn whining over how he's never going to trust Champion again, a waitress skims his way beside our booth. It takes a few seconds for me to understand whether the man was indeed a man. You'd have to double take his ruby matte lipstick, violet eyeshadow, silver wig, and matching heels. Matt is never one to judge, but the way his eyes glisten and his breathing noticeably shortens... there's no denying he's attracted to the man.

The waitress would be sure to take it to his advantage, wooing Matt with his order-taking skills and his ability to walk in heels without breaking a bone or two. 

And no, I'm not jealous. 

I don't mind the way they stare at only each other while the waitress nods along to Ciaran's order. I don't mind the way Matt glides his tongue against his bottom lip all while eye fucking the waitress. I don't mind any of it. I especially don't mind the way Matt nearly trips on his own legs while excusing himself to use the restroom, because I certainly didn't notice said waitress signal towards the bathrooms less than a minute ago. 

What I do mind is the aching feeling in my chest that pounds against my ribs, and pokes at my heart. I hide the wetness that forms in the corners of my eyes with the cup of wine Ciaran poured me, biting the insides of my cheeks at the taste of influence. 

I don't get jealous, it's not my thing.


End file.
